


Thick and Thin

by one_irradiated_muppet



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Character appropriate violence, Gen, M/M, Rating May Change, turn of the century fantasy au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 12:40:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15819072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_irradiated_muppet/pseuds/one_irradiated_muppet
Summary: The rightly notorious Jamison Fawkes finds himself on the chopping block, but if the lawmen who put him there think it's the end of his nefarious ways, they have another thing coming - especially if his executioner, of all people, has anything to do with it.





	Thick and Thin

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my lovely beta readers! And to all of you who have left comments on my other fics - they make all the toil worthwhile! <3

_Drip, drip, drip._

As far as jail cells go (and Jamison Fawkes is somewhat of an expert) this one has to be the dankest, smallest, and coldest of the lot. Not the smelliest, though - he’s experienced far worse in that regard - so he has that going for him. He’s huddled in the corner, naught but a scattering of damp straw between him and the dirt floor. The cold makes his leg ache, the knot he’s tied in his trouser leg providing little protection for the scarred stump. But worse are his hands, despite the gloves that cover them - when the metal one gets cold, so does the flesh against it. But he can’t remove it even for an instant, lest his captors catch on that more than one of his limbs are artificial.

Wet footsteps echo up the corridor outside his cell, stopping outside before being replaced with the clanking of old metal, then the screeching of rusted hinges as his cell door swings open.

The lawman who steps inside has a pinched face and a sour expression, as Jamison has found most of them do. There’s only one of two reasons he’d be here, and Jamison’s willing to bet his neck (har har) it’s not to pardon him for his crimes. The lawman looks down his nose at him as if he were a rat who’d scurried across his path, but Jamison’s eyes flit to his hands, which are empty.

“Oh come on now, where’s me leg? Don’t tell me you’re gonna stoop so low as to let a man die without the dignity of two legs beneath ‘im!”

“Quit your yammering, scoundrel. You won’t need it where you’re going.”

The lawman moves aside to let two others step past him into the small cell. Jamison recognises the first man as one of the guards who booked him, but the second is a new face - or so to speak; the head which ducks to clear the doorframe is sheathed in the black hood of an executioner. But Jamison would certainly know if he’d encountered the man before - once he’s stood straight, the pointed tip of his hood folds against the cell’s stone ceiling, and there’s barely enough room for the man widthways either, let alone the guard and Jamison too. So this is the man who’s tasked with taking his head. It’s a pity they hadn’t met some other way, frankly. Jamison gets a good long look at his bare, muscular arms, thick as tree trunks on either side of his equally bare and broad gut, before a musty sack is yanked over his head and he’s hauled up from the ground.

Jamison’s arms are bound behind his back before the guard and the executioner take him by one each; the latter could no doubt carry him on his own, but Jamison knows the former wants to be seen parading him up to the block himself. He must be so _proud_ of the new notch in his belt. Nevermind that the entire thing had been a stinking setup.

It’s a long, winding walk out of the cellblock and a steep one up to the stage, its wooden steps groaning beneath the combined weight of them all. Jamison grunts as he’s shoved to his knee, and again when his shoulders are forced down against the chopping block, knocking the wind from his lungs. The wood is smooth and damp beneath his skin, and when the sack is whipped from his head he sucks in a deep lungful of cold, wet country air.

A sizable crowd has gathered before the execution stage - so much so that the mass of bodies could very well account for the entire population of the small town. While the most likely explanation for the turnout is that executions like today’s provide a rare source of entertainment in the backwater town, Jamison derives some pleasure from their numbers, especially considering the drizzle which slicks their hair and the cobblestones beneath their feet.

The lawman steps to the front of the stage, unfurling a long parchment and raising his nasal voice to address the crowd.

“Gentlemen and gentlewomen, the man who here kneels before you is no other than the villainous and lecherous Jamison Fawkes, hereby brought to charge and accused of the following odious acts: assault with a dangerous weapon, armed robbery, burglary, battery, horse theft-”

As much as Jamison enjoys hearing his feats listed off one by one, the fact that he hasn’t been allowed his leg back is going to be cause for some difficulty, and he needs to put the time to better use. He quietly twists his arms behind him, fiddling with something beneath his shirt sleeve, and not so subtly cranes his head around to look up at the executioner.

“Psst. Hey. Hey, mate. Down ‘ere.”

The only motion from the man is the slow rise and fall of his impressive chest, the rest of him still as stone.

“You hear what he’s sayin’ don’t you? Who I am? The rightly notorious Jamison _fuckin’_ Fawkes, wanted across the land! You really think I’m going to meet my end in a pisshole like this?”

He speaks loudly, giving the executioner little option but to hear him. Good thing the lawman is too taken with his list of crimes to notice.

“This here situation mate, it’s nothin’ but a stumbling block. I’m a professional I am, an’ bloody good at what I do. Ain’t nobody takin’ my head today - no offense of course, but I got a bright future ahead of me. Gonna get out of this one way or another, but it’ll go a darn sight easier with a man of your qualities behind me. You help bust me outta here mate, and I’ll make it worth your while. Got a big stash o’ gold an’ riches hidden away and not a shilling of it’s mine - but you make the right choice and mate, half of it’s _yours_.”

Jamison’s offer appears to fall on deaf ears, the dark eye holes of the executioner’s hood remaining fixed forward and not a single one of his bulging muscles twitching to suggest he’s heard a single word.

“-and not least of all, the most heinous and reprehensible crime: _murder_.”

The executioner turns to face the chopping block, silent save for the thudding of his huge boots the slick wooden stage. His broad knuckles shift along the handle of his axe as the lawman rolls up his parchment and then he too turns away from the crowd to face Jamison’s bowed form.

“Do you, Jamison Fawkes, have any last request before your just and timely death?”

Jamison angles his head to sneer up at him, past the dirty blonde hair which has slicked to his brow.

“Nah mate, you’ve done me a right favour enough blabbering on like you have. Now let’s give the good people of this pisswater town something to talk about, shall we?”

And that’s when two things happen. Jamison’s right hand pops off behind him, allowing him to wrench his arms free of the ropes laced around them -

And the executioner swings his axe.

Blood showers down on Jamison’s head and shoulders, warm and thick compared to the drizzling rain. He throws himself back from the chopping block in time to watch the lawman’s body tumble off the stage, cleaved open through shoulder and chest and blossoming red. The gathered watchers scream as he drops to the ground like a sack of wet shit, and Jamison watches them flee through the hair which hangs in his eyes, pink and dripping.

He turns to look at his new conspirator in time to see the executioner’s boot connect with the meddling guard’s copper breast buttons, sending the man flying from the stage. Jamison laughs over the sound of the man’s winded cry and he snatches up his hand, waving it at the executioner as he hauls himself up to lean on the chopping block.

“Perfect mate, bloody perfect! Now help me get the fuck out of here and we’ll be on our merry fuckin’ way!”

One of the executioner’s massive arms loops around Jamison’s waist, pinning him to his side as if he were little more than a child, let alone 6 foot plus of an adult man. Shouts erupt behind them and the executioner turns, swinging Jamison around to see the bulk of the town’s guards standing, aghast to the last of them, in the mouth of the station.

The executioner shifts, probably to place Jamison down again and take up his axe against them, but Jamison quickly jabs him in the side to grab his attention instead.

“Nevermind about them mate, this’ll see to ‘em!”

He’d wedged his artificial hand between them so that he could reach inside it, and he brandishes from within a small metal vial. Deftly twisting the top, he throws it down the steps toward the policemen - who have gotten over their shock and begun to advance - and jabs his new friend in the side once again.

“We should probably, ah, get moving.”

The executioner’s boots meet the cobblestones as the home-made bomb goes off behind, and Jamison takes a deep breath, as if he could soak his lungs with the sounds of the resulting chaos as much as the acrid smell of metal and burning flesh. He opens his eyes to reattach his hand and finds them heading down the main street, his body jostling against the executioner’s with every heavy step.

“Not that way mate, that’s what they’ll be expecting! Take a left here. That’s it - then straight down, third right. Looking for a sign that looks like a weird bottle.”

The alleyway his directions lead them down barely accommodates the executioner’s bulk, and at the speed they’re going, Jamison is sure whatever dregs are left of the town guards will shortly catch up with them. That’ll hardly be a problem once they’re there though, and Jamison will be pleased for the opportunity to dispatch more of them. Once they pass beneath the sign he’d described, the executioner kicks the door in and stomps inside, sending the man within into a fit of screaming.

“Can it mate, won’t do you any good,” Jamison advises as the executioner places him down on a stool beside the man’s workbench. It’s covered in vials and strange equipment, and he immediately takes to rifling through them, squinting at scribbled labels and sniffing the contents of those he can’t discern.

“What - what are you doing? How dare you invade my private laboratory? I’ll call the guards!” The man squawks.

“That won’t do you any good either,” Jamison replies, nonchalantly motioning to the executioner with a bottle marked with a skull and crossbones.

“See my mate here? And more to the point, his axe? I’d find yourself a nice little corner to cower in if you don’t want to meet _it’s_ point.”

The alchemist looks from Jamison to the executioner in a long moment of wide-eyed, open mouthed flabberghastery, before taking his advice.

“By the way mate, can’t keep calling you mate, can I? What’s your name?”

The executioner’s at one of the lab’s grimy windows, peering past the heavy curtain. After a pause he lets it fall back into place and having no immediate need for his axe, uses it to bar the door, its lock hanging off from where he busted it in.

“Mako.”

“Ah! That’s not so different from ‘mate’ as I’d expected. Rolls right off the tongue! Alright then Mako, if you’d be so kind, can you grab me a couple of things from those shelves back there?”

Mako grunts an affirmative and lumbers over to the stacked shelves to rummage around for the ingredients Jamison’s requested. He manages to knock over more than a couple of packages and jars in his search, and the alchemist has to stifle several cries of outrage from his corner of relative safety.

“Ah! Brilliant, good job my friend. Right useful you’re turning out to be,” Jamison pats Mako on the arm when he spills the goods across the tabletop, earning him another grunt from beneath the hood, though the sentiment behind this one is less clear. The sounds of muffled shouting filter through from the alleyway just as Jamison’s binding two capped vials of liquid together, and he hands them to Mako with a toothy grin.

“Perfect timing! That’s the town guards for you, always there when you need ‘em. Pop the door open and show the them what I’ve made for them won’t you?”

Mako does just that, hurling the vials to shatter on the cobble street before wisely bolting the door again. There’s no explosion like last time, but the screams which follow shortly make up for it. Red and orange light dances at the edges of the curtains, leaving little mystery as to what reaction the mixing of the vials has lead to.

Jamison wriggles in his seat, cackling gleefully before scooting around to point at the musty looking rug Mako stands on.

“Under there’s a trap door. Get it open, and it’s time for the real fun to start!”

Mako kicks the rug aside and wrenches the trap door open before taking the concoction Jamison holds out to him.

“Give it a good shake then lob it down, aiming to the right! And you might wanna step back.”

The resulting explosion rocks the very foundations of the laboratory, sending any glassware which Mako hadn’t already knocked over smashing to the floor. The alchemist whimpers and weeps, and acrid black smoke billows up from the trap door.

“Hooley, that was a good’un! What were you keeping down there, eh?” Jamison shoots across the room at the alchemist, before fixing his instructions on Mako again.

“Let’s get down there. Head the way you threw and try not to breathe in the fumes.”

Jamison’s pulled his shirt off to tie around his mouth and nose. Mako seems to hesitate for the first time, but it’s only fleeting before he grabs Jamison up as he had done before and they drop together into the black.

The floor comes up fast beneath them but Mako manages to keep his footing. The little light they’d have to see by is blocked by the smoke, but he aims to the left, stumbling over rubble and god knows what. The hole the bomb blasted in the wall is too small for him, but he grabs and yanks at the crumbling brickwork with his free hand until he can squeeze through and out the other side.

Once clear of the smoke, Jamison has barely a moment to catch his breath before it’s knocked out of him again.

Mako slams him up against a wall, holding him there effortlessly with one hand twisting in the shirt around his neck. He leans in until they’re hood to nose, so much so that the hand is probably unnecessary - the press of his gut alone could most likely keep Jamison in place.

“ _Never_ ask me to do something like that again,” he growls in a low voice, and for the first time, Jamison gets a peek at the eyes inside the hood; the rage in them more than backs up the sentiment behind his words.

“But wasn’t it _fun_?” Jamison says with a choked laugh, before he’s dropped to the floor in an angular heap.

Mako towers over him just as he’d done in the jail cell, fists the size of hams clenching as though he’d like nothing better than to take Jamison’s head between them and _squeeze_. But they’re in this together now - or he must have decided something along those lines at least, because a moment later he drags Jamison up again, holding him aloft by his arm and grunting in his face.

“Where now?”

“Keep going through then up these stairs. I was gonna nab a horse but a man of your stature might be more comfortable with a carriage. We’ve got the time, guards won’t figure where we’ve gotten to for a while.”

Mako slings him under his arm again and Jamison rubs at his wrist with his metal hand, though he’s hardly grumbling - quite to the contrary, he’s practically beaming. What a diamond in the rough this executioner has turned out to be. Tiffs or not, he’s making this whole escape much easier than it would have been alone.

They make their way through what turn out to be storerooms packed with animal feed and hanging with tack. Above they find that the stables are a flurry of activity, but the hands are more interested in calming down the horses than paying attention to the men making their way through. None of the horses here will be of any use in their riled up state - an understandable reaction to the bomb blast - so Jamison points Mako out to the yard instead.

“Ah, just the ticket!”

There’s an open-top carriage in the yard, the two horses which are set to draw it much more settled than those in the stables, their driver no doubt stalled in leaving by the commotion Jamison had set off. A single stable boy stands with the horses, and when Mako approaches he balks at the sight of him - not to mention the bloody, grinning mess of a man under his arm - and releases their reins in a panic.

Mako tosses Jamison into the belly of the carriage unceremoniously and takes the reins up, but before he can step up into the driver’s seat a cry comes from the side.

“Oi! What are you playing at!?”

A hardy looking man in a farrier’s apron is stomping across the courtyard toward them. Jamison peeks over the carriage door just in time to see Mako’s fist make short work of him, though - not so tough after all.

The carriage sinks beneath Mako’s weight and with a flick of the reins, the sound of hooves on the dirt and Jamison’s gleeful cackling, they’re out of there.


End file.
